Hinges of Destiny
by kandisi
Summary: Sylar has to make a choice, now, between Claire and Peter.  If he makes no choice, they both die, if he makes one. . . only one of them can live. . .  but his choice may come back to haunt him yet. . .


**Title:** Hinges of Destiny**  
>CharactersPairings:** Sylar, Peter, Claire, Sylar/Claire, Sylar/Peter, (Can't mention anything else just yet for spoiler's sake.)  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M / R**  
>Summary:<strong> Sylar has to make a choice, now, between Claire and Peter. If he makes no choice, they both die, if he makes one. . . only one of them can live. . .but his choice may come back to haunt him yet. . .**  
>Warnings:<strong> (Thus far) Violence, some language, angst, thematic elements, character death**  
>Timeset:<strong> Post season 4.**  
>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own _Heroes _in any way shape or form, and do not make any money off writing this; it was just for fun and to pass free time.

**A/N:** This fic is probably disturbing in too many ways to count, but I was in an angst mood when I started this. It was initially intended to be a one-shot, but I decided not to list it as one since I'd sort of like to try to continue it, lol...

-Extreme caution is advised to anyone who plans to read this...  
>-There is slashiness and hetness in this, though nothing explicit... yet. -shifty eyes-<p>

**Hinges of Destiny**

—

He had seen it, so well. Everything. Their intents. Their actions. Their words. Their dreams, their nightmares. Their strengths, weaknesses. Their prides and apparitions.

"_No!"_

However, he had been fairly unbothered by them as a whole. In fact, he had genuinely welcomed his expectations. Certain ones, that is.

"_Please!"_

Even if he had grown to expect the worst in people, he had never truly welcomed it. The world, everyone in it... they all had the ability to be cruel, and sometimes... that ability was far more powerful than any he bore, any he had seen, and any he could ever expect to have or see.

"_Sylar!"_

If only he had expected this.

"_Sylar!"_

Still, why had he ever expected anything less?

A difficult decision was never easy, while an easy decision often presented itself with the most difficult of results. If one truly was defined by the choices they made in life, the past on one side of the door and the future on the other, all the while bearing a single person within its hollow at any present moment... then it would be the choices they made which helped to create the hinges their life depended on, the hinges of their destiny.

"Gabriel."

No. No, no, _no_. He didn't know who she was, but he knew this was _not_ real. Virginia Gray was dead. They all were. It had to be an illusion... a nightmare... maybe hell, but that, he supposed, would make this real, and if there was one thing he would never let himself forget... just because something wasn't possible didn't necessarily mean it never would be, never would be real.

"You're dead," he said, staring at the person who only appeared to be Virginia Gray.

"No, Gabriel." She smiled at him. "I'm alive in you, we all are, and for that reason... all of us will live forever."

Sylar took a single step forwards. "You're not real, none of you are," he said, pointing his finger at her.

They watched him. All of them did. Brian, Trevor, Chandra, James, Zane, Dale, Jackie, Isaac, Ted. Alejandro, Bob, Joe, Sue, Tom. Elle, Arthur, Nathan... There were over sixty of them, his victims, all standing there... all watching him, all smiling at him, laughing.

Maybe he was in a nightmare again; his own, manmade personal purgatory had descended and upgraded down to the very ninth level of hell.

"This is not a nightmare," Virginia said, smile on her face and hand over her heart. "This is very real, Gabriel. My special Gabriel."

He frowned, hesitating to attack, hand shaking. "This.. is not.. real," he said firmly, and oh how he wanted to believe in his own words. "There's nothing real about your abilities, whatever they are, whatever the hell you are..."

She chuckled. "But surely you know people like you can make the _effects_ of their gifts just as real and just as special as you are, but," she smiled and pointed at him, "that's only assuming the person or entity _behind_ those powers is real, too."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, barring his teeth when he felt the sudden cold. He looked up, saw the clouds overtake the evening sky.

Lightning flashed and thunder crashed, while the cool breeze was replaced by a cold gust.

"You are _not_ God, Gabriel," she replied, slowly approaching him in the same clothing she had been murdered in. "You're not behind your power – you never were – and if God is not behind your gift, you must be behind the devil."

"_Shut up_," he leered, holding his ground as the figure approached him. "I don't know who you are or even _what_ you are or how you're doing _any_ of this, but I _have_ the power to stop you _as long_ as I _refuse_ to accept this is real!"

Virginia placed one hand over her mouth, chuckling at him, shaking her head. "Oh Gabriel... turn and face what you've done," she said, holding her arm out and pointing at him again, or rather, behind him.

Sylar wasn't stupid. He would never turn his back in a situation like this, but then...

"You speak as if you _actually_ believe this is merely another telepathy-induced nightmare..."

Sylar closed his eyes, teeth clenching. He knew that voice, all too well.

"Well," Nathan whispered, "it's not." He laughed, walking to stand at Sylar's side. "And of course you know my brother can't save you this time. As you can see right over,"—he squinted his eyes and pointed to the end of the ledge—"_there_, he may be joining _me_ very soon... Claire, too."

Sylar tried to fling Nathan's image away, electrocute it, punch it... nothing took, and sadly it seemed he was at a sudden loss for power while whoever this monstrous person or people were had more than enough.

He heard _the_ screams again—_their_ screams—the intermingled screams of Claire Bennet and Peter Petrelli.

Many yards ahead, at the corner of the roof to Sylar's left, Claire was bound to the floor by some form of invisible restraints; covered in blood. She was struggling wildly against her bonds, cement scraping at her knees as she continued to shout, continued to make repetitive, futile attempts at emancipating herself.

On the other side of the roof was Peter, hovering in midair with his arms outstretched at his sides. He too was covered in blood, especially his hands; so much so that the blood was dripping down from them, blood that never had the chance to hit the pavement. His blood was being suspended in the air just as he was.

"_Sylar!_" Peter shouted again. "It's _not_ real, don't believe _any_ of what you're seeing!"

"_Listen_ to him!" Claire shouted in the midst of her struggles. "It's _just_ an illusion!"

"Illusion," Sylar muttered, furrowing his brow. He looked from Virginia, to Nathan, and back to Virginia. "I see. You're nothing more than a very talented illusionist. Candice thought the same."

"Candice was weak," Virginia said, clasping her hands together. "Weak, but not worthless, and most certainly not purposeless or powerless. None of us were and no one is, but... what you are seeing is not merely the work of an illusionist."

"I don't believe you." Sylar smirked and lowered his arm, slowly walking forwards across the pavement. "You're obviously _just_ another backstabbing one of us who turned their back on us to work for _them_, and I _am_ going to stop _each_ and _every_ one of you _before_ time has a chance to end."

"Believe what you will," she said, smiling another loving smile. "But I must warn you against that. In your world... the simple explanation is never quite so simple."

Sylar was ready to retort before he even had, though he didn't get the chance. He was hit in the side, by fire.

It _felt_ real.

"That's because it _is_ real," Meredith said, launching another blazing round at him. He screamed and she laughed, before she walked her way to him, looking down to where he had fallen. "This is what you get for killing me." She burned him again. "Bitch."

Sylar looked up from the pavement, waiting for his body to regenerate. Hoping it would. When his hopes were answered, however, he couldn't help but wonder _why_ his ability to heal was the only ability he currently had access to.

"I would think that's obvious," Nathan said, standing there, next to Meredith, in the same clothes he had worn when Sylar had killed him. Blood poured from his gashed throat and his skin was pale, and while Sylar definitely did not want to look at him the apparent theme of his undead victims' apparel made Nathan _much_ easier to look at than many of them. _Especially_ Meredith.

Nathan chuckled and shook his head. "We can't have you dying on us just yet, but we can torture you in the meantime," he said, looking up as he stroked at his chin. "Speaking of which..." In an instance, he removed a knife from his pocket and slashed Sylar across the throat.

"_Stop it!_" Peter shouted. He couldn't see whatever it was Sylar was seeing, but he could certainly see the effects.

Claire gritted her teeth, struggling against the chains with _every_ ounce of strength she had. "Whoever you are, you _show_ yourself you fucking coward!"

Sylar collapsed to the pavement, knees giving way as he fell to the side, clutching at his throat. He knew he would heal, but in extreme cases of pain such as these there was always that small moment – those few seconds – where he felt as if he was literally going to die.

He tried to breath, and could not. There was nothing to breath in, nothing but the pain and the blood. A hand fisted into his hair, jerking his head back with enough force to raise him to a kneeling position.

"Are you having fun yet?" Arthur smiled composedly, raising his chin despite the fact that he had already been looking down on the man who had helped end his immortal life. "Oh, Gabriel... you pathetic fool, the things I would like to do to you now," he said, lowering himself to Sylar's level and looking him in the eyes. "I'd like to have you strapped down to a table before I cut away at your limbs over, over, and over again. You know you deserve it."

Fist in Sylar's hair, Isaac said, "And I'd like to crucify him to the floor with paintbrushes and take his fucking head off, his brain out."

Alejandro walked up, holding a knife. "Voy a apuñalarlo," he said, plunging the blade into Sylar's chest.

Claire looked to her left, at Peter. "What the hell's happening to him?"

"I-I don't know," Peter said, straining his neck to look down at her. "Maybe the person who took us turned invisible?"

"Then why does Sylar keep talking like that?" she asked, eyes on Sylar as he screamed and cursed with specific names in mind. "I know he's trapped in some kind of illusion but are _we_ trapped in one, too?"

"I... honestly don't know, Claire," he whispered, looking back to Sylar, watching the wounds as they continued to appear only to fade away and appear again. "I-I don't know who's doing this, I... I don't even know how I _got_ here."

She tried to remember, realizing she couldn't. "I don't know, either... I was just... walking around the campus, and next thing I know I'm... here, with you, and then... Sylar appeared right as I woke up..."

"I just remember sitting in the ambulance, waiting for my shift to begin," he said, closing his eyes, trying so hard to remember what had occurred between then and now. If only... "Wait. If we have had some of our memories erased, _you_ should be able to get them back."

"How do I do that?" she asked, looking up at him again.

"Just concentrate _hard_ on the _last_ thing you remember," he said quickly. From the way Sylar was screaming now, Peter knew they all needed answers now, before all of them died in this nightmare. "Concentrate on that at first, and try to remember what came directly after that, and so on," he added.

Claire shut her eyes, concentrating, harder and harder. "There was..."

"_Where the hell am I?"_

"_I'm sorry, Claire, but he's left me no choice."_

"_Who are you?"_

"...a guy, some guy I'd never seen before," she whispered, the memories slowly coming back to her more and more. "He grabbed me out of nowhere and teleported me into some dark room, and..."

"_I'm the true oracle of the world's undoing."_

"_What do you want?"_

"_You're part of Sylar's test."_

"_What test?"_

"_The test where he makes a __**choice**__, and decides __**which**__ one of you he's willing to give a life for..."_

"...he said I was part of a test for Sylar," she said, opening her eyes and looking back up at Peter. "He said... he was going to give Sylar some kind of a test where Sylar would have to choose between me and..." Her eyes widened, mouth gaping.

"What?" Peter asked, trying and failing at masking the panic in his voice. "What... does that mean?"

Claire exhaled a shaky breath, visibly trembling. "I-I think... it means that only one of us is supposed to walk out of here..."

"What?" he said again. "What do you mean by that?"

"I... think that horrible man... what he meant," she said, staring straight ahead while Peter looked at her, "is that Sylar can only save one of us... either that or he has to die so both of us can live..."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "_No_ one's gonna die," he said through his teeth. "There just _has_ to be a way out of this..."

Sylar, by this point, had almost lost the will to fight back. He was actually starting to wonder if he was dead, if he had actually... gone to hell. The last thing he could remember prior to being on this roof, with all of his victims, was... walking down the street. He knew he had been thinking that something was horribly wrong at the time, but how the hell _had_ he gone from a typical sidewalk in New York to this... hell?

"Because you deserved it. What, that not enough of a reason for you?"

Sylar looked up.

Elle stared him down, blood running down her bandaged leg, her forehead. "I really, really liked you, Gabriel," she whispered. When it seemed he was _truly_ becoming horrified, she shook her head and presented him with a smart, mildly playful smile. "So, what is this? I save you, you save me, you fuck me, you kill me? I really, really hope our little cheerleader and pretty boytoy know what they're getting themselves into..."

She kneeled, smirking directly in his face. "Everything you touch _dies_, Gabriel," she said, running her bloody fingertips down his cheek. "You don't know how to love, you only know how to _obsess_, and the fact that you weren't obsessed with me is part of the reason you killed me. Claire and Peter... we both know it's _only_ a matter of time before you," she dragged her index finger across her neck, "take their heads _right_ off..."

"No!" Sylar shouted, backing away from her. "I-I'm _not_ killing anyone, _ever_ again!"

"Are you so sure about that?" Nathan asked, folding his arms and looking down at Sylar from behind him. "Because... you're about to make a choice... between my brother and my daughter."

Elle clapped her hands together. "This is going to be _so_ fun!" she cheered, jumping up and down.

Sylar didn't know what 'they' were talking about, though he already knew he didn't want to know. Peter and Claire weren't really there, anyway... their suffering images had to be part of the trick, nightmare, illusion, punishment... Perhaps experiment; _had_ the CIA actually managed to capture him.

He was stabbed again, in the back this time. By who or what, he didn't know, nor did he care. When the object was ripped from his backside, Nathan and another risen victim Sylar had yet to take a look at jerked him up from the blood-stained pavement. He wasn't on his feet long, however, as he was thrown forwards seconds later by what seemed to be telekinetic energy. Afterwards, he landed face down on the cement, his wrist and a few digits snapping in the process.

"You turned out to be a _bad_ boy, didn't you?"

Sylar didn't recognize the most recent voice... then again, maybe he did; though he didn't know how, or from where.

"Look at me, Gabriel."

He snapped his wrist back into place, slowly pushing himself up from the ground.

He froze the second he saw the beautiful woman standing over him.

"You turned out even worse than your father," she said, shaking her head as he gazed upon his shock-ridden expressions. "He was a _crazed_ man by the time his hunger overtook him. Handing you over to his brother was never really _all_ about the money... because, deep down, he knew _what_ you were, knew that if he didn't get rid of you then that he _would_ be the death of you, and if not, _you_ would be the death of _him_."

She bent her knees and smiled, brushing a hand back through his hair. "While you've made him proud, you should have killed him when you had the chance, my son," she whispered.

"Oh my God," Sylar murmured.

She laughed at him. "Close, but _not_ quite..."

Much of the illusion began to fade away, though the scenery did not change. The people, however... they all faded away, all but four...

"That's _him_," Claire said with a gasp. "_That's_ the guy!"

"But who the hell is he?" Peter whispered.

"_You_," Sylar growled, pushing himself up from the pavement, standing.

"Surprised?" Samson laughed again. "Oh, Gabriel... Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel... You _should_ have known better."

"This," Sylar said, pointing at him, "is _not_ possible. You're dead. You _have_ to be."

"I'd say reality begs to differ," Samson replied, clasping his hands behind his back as he raised his chin and laughed another bright laugh. "True, I came close to meeting my maker, but that was about the same time I met some new 'company'. Not petty little Angela's company, mind you, I speak of one that's been around a little longer, much like me." He kept his eyes on his highly confused son, pacing a few yards in front of him. "Surely you didn't think Claire Bennet was the _only_ person in existence other than you with the ability to heal... 'Now', I help the government track down the bad ones, like you, and in return, I get what's coming to me," he shrugged idly, "so with that out of the way, let's see you try to overpower me, _if_ you can..."

"_I'll_ give you _exactly_ 'what's coming to you', you sick son of a bitch!" Sylar shouted, walking forwards with his arm extended. He was ready to kill.

But so was his father. Samson smirked and raised his hand, sending a powerful wave of telekinetic energy forth.

Sylar retaliated with the same power, as much of it as he could muster. The roof began to shake thereafter, if that's even _where_ any of them were. Sylar figured that when the illusion fully faded back to reality, reality would reveal an entirely different location altogether.

He barred his teeth, felt the blood dripping from his nose. Where. Where had Samson acquired this kind of power? It was a stupid question, he knew, since the answer was as plain as the power in his mind. So many questions. Answered questions. He knew who had been behind most of the special disappearances now, the murders, who the new serial killer was, the new villain of the story.

And if this man, this monster... had regeneration and telepathy and illusion on top of the powers he'd had before... what else? What else did he have _now?_

"I have the power to make your life hell, boy," Samson said, taking a single step in his son's direction. "That's really all you need know."

Sylar fought back with as much effort as he possibly could, but it was no use. He hadn't witnessed this kind of power, with this level of control, since Arthur Petrelli. Still, he would not give up. As the blood trickled down his chin and his head soared with pain from overexertion, he placed one hand against his forehead; the soles of his shoes scraping against the pavement as he felt himself being pushed back, inch by inch.

"You're fighting a losing battle," Samson said, voice filled to the brim with amusement. "And we both know that the harder _you_ try, the harder you ultimately _fail_."

"No!"

"Yes. And today was the last day you would even _hope_ to dream of the day where the ghosts of your past did not torment you, for when this night is over... you'll be your own victim all.. over.. again."

Sylar ceased his attempts at retaliating, though not because he had wanted to. He had merely run out of the strength to fight back. The second he dropped his guard, he was propelled backwards with enough inhuman force to cause his back to snap like a frozen rubber band the moment he hit the wall of steel with an earth-shattering scream.

"You _leave him alone!_" Peter shouted, doing whatever he _could_ to free himself. He didn't care if he had to rip himself from those fucking nails if that's what it took, and finally, with enough effort, he managed to free his right arm; gasping in pain as he felt the skin tearing, saw the way he could see through the hole in his hand.

However painful it was, he tried to use his right-hand to aid in freeing his left, but a certain onlooker caught on to his actions quite soon...

Samson turned around. "I don't think so, Peter, and you and I both know it will never be so," he said, holding his arm out. "For now."

Sylar pushed himself up from the ground the best he could. His lower half felt paralyzed, and he felt too weak to even think about trying to muster up the strength to snap his spinal cord back into place. Then, however, he saw that madman had ceased to attack him in favor of... Claire and Peter?

They were _really_ there, weren't they? _They_ were _real_. They _were_ there. And they _didn't_ deserve this. Even if Sylar felt that he did.

Sylar heard _the_ screams again—_their_ screams—and watched, watched as his father stood there while they screamed. He didn't even know what was happening – he couldn't see what was really happening – though he could clearly see the results. Peter began to bleed, everywhere, as if he was being impaled over and over again by dozens of invisible bullets one after the other.

While he screamed in unadulterated agony, Claire cursed their tormentor, before she too was met with the same courtesy as Peter.

In reality, Peter was having numerous nails imbedded into his flesh, through it. Samson had placed him on that cross and crucified him for a reason, and when illusion melted into reality Sylar would see those sick thoughts he had once fantasized about turned fact, just as he would see Claire had been a prisoner of her hatred for him far too long to ever break the shackles without his aid.

"Peter," Sylar whispered. "Claire..."

He felt a surge of strength from within, snapped his broken bones back together, and stood.

"_You_," he growled, full of such rage and such hatred he couldn't even begin to describe it. "You _get away from them __**right now!**_"

Samson spun around on his heel, smiling rather cheerily. "I'm glad that didn't take long. After all, we can get to the best part now, the grand finale with such fine décor to compliment it."

"I'd agree, 'Dad'," Sylar said, walking toward him step by step. "The best part... is the part where you die, and the décor will be _your_ _blood_."

"No." Samson laughed, shaking his head a little. "This is the part where you make your choice. Who should live versus who will live was often never one in the same, but it took you _so_ long to learn that, but as we do know... sometimes it is the wolf who finds himself stuffed on the mantle while the rabbits scurry around and laugh."

Sylar shook his head, almost out of pity. "You're fucking _insane_."

"Hmm." Samson pursed his lips and looked up for a moment. "Probably," he said, looking back at Sylar, "but surely you know it runs in the family. You're a hunter, a crazed monstrous killer who enjoys turning his victims into symbolic trophies for all to see _just_ as much as his father."

"I want you to tell me," Sylar said, gesturing to Claire and Peter, "why you are doing this. Why you're doing any of this." A brief silence set in, a silence that wasn't broken until he heard the silent, wordless screams of his father's other captives. "I may be insane," he whispered, hands fisting at his sides. "But I would never do something with_out_ reason, and I doubt you would, either. You _must_ have a motive behind this other than wanting to make me pay for leaving you to die, because that motive is just too damn pitiful for you to actually follow through with it."

"Smart boy," Samson said, clapping his hands together lightly in a rather mocking display of appraisal. "Truth be told, I am not even from this timeline. In the future I come from, evolution staked its claim on humanity and people like me rule the world while _they_ cower before _us_. But you." He sneered at Sylar, casting a quick glance back over his right shoulder, then his left. "People like _you_, Claire Bennet, Peter Petrelli... chose to fight for _them! _Those _insignificant_ mortals, who for years tried to kill us off, experiment on us, lock us all away, _exterminate_ us."

"So you came back in time to kill everyone who had the power to stop you?" Sylar smirked again. "That's _ridiculous_ – do something like _that_ and just wait and _see_ what you 'go back' to."

"I am not a fool, Gabriel," Samson replied, clapping his hands together a single time as he began to step back. "I've mapped the variables, determined _every_ possibility. I don't want you dead, I only _need_ you to be stronger. When I've come from, you've become so _weak_ it makes me sad to think about. I couldn't understand how or why but then the answer became..." He slowly turned around, looking at Peter and Claire. "...so obvious."

Sylar said nothing. Not that he didn't want to; he didn't know what to say, and already he was afraid of whatever it was he was soon to hear.

"And so we have _Claire Bennet_," Samson said, extending both arms toward her as if she were some sort of object on display with no other purpose than that of being presented, "the frisky former cheerleader who managed to captivate you so with her fiery ambition and immortal life that bore a spirit she would never let die, never let fade away as you _knew_ yours would."

He turned to his left and gestured to another of his captives. "And then we have _Peter Petrelli_, that fascinating creature of an empath who, like Miss Bennet, earned your obsessions from the first moment you saw him, the man who, in his very essence, paints the very opposite of what you are with a parallel amount of force that's so ironic and complimentary it depicts the very nature of the third law."

"They don't have _anything_ to do with this," Sylar said, seething.

Samson smiled derisively. "Oh, but they do. In the future it's clear your reason for existence is not to save the world as you claim, it's merely your attachment to these two – your pathetic _love_ for them – that fuels you in place of that charging, obsessive hatred you once felt that made you a true warrior."

Sylar looked at him as if he were looking upon the craziest being that had ever lived. Samson enjoyed it.

"Also, I have to admit I have become quite bored to date," he said with a huff and another shrug. "My victory was sure but tactically simplistic, especially with you and your continuous denial of what you are, which persuades you to deny me a proper battle." He fisted his hand, shaking it at Sylar. "I crave a _challenge_, I want another ruler in the world who will challenge me, _not_ one who chooses to fight under _their_ command like a petty little servant at the bottom of the food chain."

"You're fucking insane," Sylar said again. He distained repeating himself and always had, but there really were no other suitable words for what he was witnessing, what he was hearing.

Samson sighed. "Don't fret, I'm becoming bored as well," he said, shrugging dramatically and taking a single step back as he held his arms out at his sides. "So let's move on to the main course, shall we?"

Sylar shook his head firmly and began to walk forwards. "If you so much as—"

"One more step and they _both_ die."

Sylar froze.

"Like I said, I am presenting you with a choice," Samson said, pointing the fingers of both hands; one to his right, one to his left. "I need to feed that rage, reawaken that hunger of yours. If these two remain in your life that will never happen. On the contrary, were they both to die, you would go completely mad and lose the will to live." He smiled a dark smile. "...but if _one_ of them dies, not only will you _have_ the rage that you have lost... you will also have _no_ choice but to go on living for the sake of the one between them who _lives_..."

Sylar didn't know what to do, what to say, what to think... He knew he was _horrified_ – more afraid than he had _ever_ been in his entire life – and that fear was the only thing he was sure of at this moment.

As for Claire and Peter... they looked just as horrified as he did.

"The only person here who is going to die is you," Sylar said finally, though he knew he had sounded just as unsure of himself as he authentically was.

"No, I'm afraid not. I am afraid _not_," Samson said, lowering his arms to his sides. "In roughly sixty seconds, I am going to permit you to save one of your 'special' special friends... You may think you will have time to save them both, but that will not be the case. The _second_ you move so much as a millimeter in the direction of one of them, the other will die."

"I am going to kill you first."

Samson laughed at him. "If you're so sure of that, why can I already hear you trying to decide?"

Sylar was going to yell at him again, threaten him again, and moreover expose him for the liar he was.

"Sylar!" Peter said, before Sylar had the chance to say anything. "I want you to save Claire!"

"What?" Claire's mouth fell open in shock. "Peter, are you crazy? I'm _not_ dying for you!" She turned her head forwards again. "Sylar, please! If someone has to die I'd rather it be _me!_"

"Oh my," Samson said as he studied his son's horrified expressions. "It seems I should have left them silenced, since you and I both know everything they say will haunt you for the rest of eternity."

Sylar remained silent. He wanted to attack Samson more than anything, but he couldn't be sure that the first step he took wouldn't ensure someone's death.

"Smart boy," Samson said again, smiling at him. "Now you're thinking like-like a _true_ criminal mastermind! I know the decision to kill was always an easy one for psychopaths such as us, but sparing lives..." He cocked his head to the side and shrugged. "Huh, guess that one always took a _little_ more thought, so I'll give you some thoughts to think about..."

He held out his arm, and – with telekinetic force – pulled Sylar toward him; ceasing his throat one-handedly and raising him into the air until his feet were no longer touching the ground.

Sylar was still afraid to fight back, still afraid to think so much as single thought about Peter or Claire. Samson could use that, use any action or thought he made to justify a 'choice'...

Then... the flashes began.

They were similar to flashes he would have when his clairsentience was in use, only so much more real...

"_So, whose partner are you supposed to be, anyway? Wait."_

"_Sometimes I think I've had enough of this life."_

"_Have you had enough of mine?"_

"_No."_

"_She has no business getting involved in this..."_

"_Why do you say that?"_

"_Nobody should __**need**__ a gun to begin with."_

"_I killed someone."_

"_I'm sorry, Claire."_

"_No you're not."_

"_Tell me why, Peter. Why you really chose this life again, the one you said you never again wanted."_

"_I wasn't strong enough before, and the world needed me to be. Besides, I wasn't gonna let you go to hell without me – it would have been weird for both of us."_

"_What are you staring at?"_

"_I really like your hair."_

"_And I really like this gun."_

"_What are you doing here?"_

"_I wasn't going to let you go to heaven alone."_

"_This place is hardly heaven."_

"_Where are we going, exactly?"_

"_Nowhere, and I know it hurts you."_

"_Funny."_

"_I thought that was going to take forever. Like, literally forever."_

"_You looked good out there, though."_

"_Pssh, so you did notice?"_

"_Oh I know. You're not a bad guy, bad stuff just happens to you."_

"_Good things happen to me, too, Claire. Maybe a lot less, but I'm sure I could render that with a little help."_

"_So if I shot you in the heart, would that be enough 'help' for you?"_

"_If you ever truly feel the need to shoot me, I'd assume I would deserve it. That said, make sure you shot to kill."_

"_I really don't know how to explain it. Every time I kill someone... it's like a part me dies with them, and the less I feel the less I am..."_

"_You're never less than what you think you are, Peter."_

"_That was... quite possibility the most ridiculous words of comfort you could have thought to say."_

"_Fine... killing, well... I'm not going to tell you it will get easier with time because you know it will, and I'm sure that's exactly what really scares you. I can tell you right now that you will remember each and every one of these people until the end of forever, but strangely it seems justifiable... so many people are afraid of being forgotten after they die, but as long as I'm alive I know they'll always be remembered, and never forgotten."_

"_I always said death could be beautiful if you let it... the end of the beginning."_

"_Is that why you always like to come up here and watch the sunset?"_

"_Maybe. I can watch the sunrise, but they always seem the same, and yet... every time I watch the sunset, there's something different about it every time."_

"_Maybe... that's because just because all people are created equally doesn't necessarily mean they die equally."_

"_You know this stuff gets to him more than it does us."_

"_He's not like us, Claire."_

"_Thank God. Also, don't talk to me like we're the same, because I've already told you we're not."_

"_Why do you come up here to watch the sunrise?"_

"_Because I want to. That and because it reminds me the world hasn't ended yet, and... there's something exciting about it. I don't know, sunsets always bored me. Anyway, what's the big deal?"_

"_I guess I was trying to figure out my own preferences."_

"_Are you going to say anything?"_

"_Anything?"_

"_Get serious. And you know what I mean."_

"_And you know I love you."_

"_Love yourself, too, Gabriel."_

"_I... hell, I guess I don't really know what to say, either."_

"_I do. I love... to hate you, too."_

"_Peter... I-I..."_

"_Ssh, just relax. Gabriel, I love you so much."_

"_I love you, too."_

"_Claire..."_

"_I know, best you've never had..."_

"_Lovely way of putting it."_

"_Fine. I 'love you'... love hating you, that is."_

"_I would never expect anything less... and I love to hate you, too."_

"_Gabriel."_

"_Peter?"_

"_Gabriel."_

"_Claire?"_

Sylar fell to the ground, gasping, clutching at his throat. His eyes were wide and his heart was racing, and the images... _those_ images...

Samson looked down at him. "Those," he said, smiling, "...were a few of your future self's memories." He bent down, waiting for Sylar to look back at him. "You know what time it is, now. Even the broken watch still keeps the correct time twice a day, but you're about to lose one of those times forever and you know it."

"I'd rather die myself," Sylar whispered.

"That's not a choice," Samson replied, standing fully once again. "By the way, you're _not_ the only one who saw those magnificent flash-forwards just now, and as of now, you have ten seconds to make your choice or both of them _will_ die, and you and I will just _wait_ and _see_ what happens in a few years..."

Sylar looked up, saw _their_ eyes. He had never wanted to die more, and in ten seconds from now he would be thinking this all over again. This was a nightmare, a real nightmare. If there was a hell, this was it, and he was there. Now. He couldn't die if he was already dead, but Claire and Peter – the parts of him that made him feel alive – they were alive, and they could die.

_Tick_.

"Sylar, please! Save _her!_"

_Tick_.

"Don't listen to him! The world needs Peter _more_ than it needs me, and so do _you!_"

_Tick_.

"I _swear_ if you let her die for me that I will _never_ forgive you!"

_Tick_.

"And _I_ swear that if you let him die for me I will kill _myself!_"

_Tick_.

"Don't say things like that! I-I know a time will come where we can all be together again, and I need to know you believe that..."

_Tick_.

"I've _always_ believed that, _you're_ the one who doesn't. Goddamnit, Peter, I would rather die in hell than live there for an eternity!"

_Tick_.

"Sylar... Gabriel, _please_. I'm begging you..."

_Tick._

"And so am _I!_ If you let this end now, you can know I _didn't_ die hating you!"

_Tick._

"Time."

_Tick._

_Boom_.

"...and so his heart went."

"_No!_"

_The world is cruel, not just because people are cruel, but because the world itself really is cruel, because nothing last forever. Everything dies, even eternity, and there's no beauty in that._

_There's no beauty in nothing, and that's all I am now, all I'll ever be..._

Illusion faded into reality.

It was nothing more than some old building, some renovated torture chamber.

Samson Gray had faded when the illusion had, but the results of his plan had not. Sylar couldn't even think about _how_ much he wanted to kill that man, even if he would soon think of nothing else _until_ the man was dead at his hands.

That is, if he didn't find a way to kill himself first.

He could still hear the screams, but they were so silent compared to the voices in his own head that he barely acknowledged them.

Wordless and expressionless, he began to walk forwards; he had to set both of them free, even though one of them already was free while the other would more than likely remain trapped in the memory of this night forever.

Forever was never long enough, he thought, it only seemed that way, but only when forever was love, not hate.

"I _hate_ you!"

Good. He hated himself, and he deserved to be hated right now. His father had been right, about so many things; specifically the part where he had said Sylar should have killed him when he'd had the chance. It was no matter now. Samson had thought this through. Hiro wasn't dead, since no Hiro in the past would mean no stolen power from him in the future and hence no trip to the past, and while thoughts of going back to that day in the cabin in the woods to kill his father were still in mind, Sylar knew it sounded so easy that it _was_ too easy to be a genuine solution...

"I.. _hate_ you..! Do you _hear_ me? I—"

"_Shut up!_ I don't _care_ if you hate me because I hate myself _and_ I hate you!" Sylar shouted, clutching at the lifeless body in his arms.

"_How_ can you—"

"Get _away_ from me, Claire!"

She halted her footsteps. She wanted to scream at Sylar, curse him, just run up to him and pound her fists into him until she could no longer stand. Instead, her fists loosened into a shaky set of hands and she collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

"_Peter_," Sylar whispered, clutching at him, pressing their foreheads together, "I-I loved you, _so_ much, and it _kills_ me knowing that you'll never know, that I... never had the chance to tell you..."

Claire wiped the tears from her face, even though the action itself was rather pointless. She was still crying, and would continue to cry. After hearing Sylar's silent confession, she dragged a blood-stained hand back through her hair, slapping her palm against the pavement as she looked at him.

"Why?" she whispered. "If you loved him _that_ much, then _why?_"

He, at first, chose to remain silent. Then, however...

"It was what he wanted," Sylar whispered without turning his head to look at her. "In that moment... I did realize that while my obsession for you exceeded whatever obsession I had for him, my love for you did not... and for that reason, I had to listen to him..."

She couldn't find the words, couldn't think of any to say. She wanted to hate him, so much. She told herself she did, and while a part of her always would hate what he had once been she knew she could no longer hate who he was now.

While he had felt the tears on his face before, he finally broke down into a hysterical state of uncontrolled sobbing. The memories already hurt so much they were enough to drive him mad. Everything, from Union Wells to the dream of a nightmare, the hall to the wall and more... if these memories were not ultimately the death of him he didn't know what would be.

When he felt the hand on his shoulder, he was quick to yell, "Don't touch me!" He knew he had sounded ridiculous, that this was in no way Claire's fault. He needed to be alone, for her own good, for everyone's good. Right now, no idea was more pleasant in the world than the idea of numbing it all out, ripping the nearest person to shreds.

But the less he felt the less he was.

"He knew," she whispered, kneeling at his side. "I-I'm sure he knew..."

Sylar ran his hand back through Peter's hair another time, lightly pressing his lips to his forehead. He sat back, and looked at Claire.

"I'm sure he did, but he'll still never hear me say it."

—

"_So, I... finally worked up the courage to visit you here," he said with a chuckle. "I didn't go to the funeral because I told myself I wasn't wanted, even though I couldn't have cared less whether my presence was desired or not. In truth, I only knew that seeing you there would make it that much more real..."_

_He kneeled in front of the snow-covered grave. "I waited this long to come here for the same reason... that and because I didn't think you would want me anywhere near Nathan's grave, or Angela's... I know she's not dead yet, but she's already made two attempts and there doesn't seem to be anything I can say or do to change her mind... Claire thinks of it too, I'm sure, and I know I do... but strangely, I no longer find myself wanting Claire at my side so I won't ever have to be alone in the future... I find myself wanting to be there for her, so she'll never have to be alone..."_

"_That's touching – really, it is – and I must say I'm amazed to see you pay your respects to Nathan like this, and to me."_

"_Peter," Sylar whispered._

_Silence._

"_Aren't you going to turn and face me?"_

"_No." No. This wasn't real. It had to be a dream, another one of __**those**__ dreams._

"_Maybe... you're no longer confusing dreams with reality... maybe... you're confusing reality with dreams..."_

_Sylar closed his eyes. "But I know this isn't real," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "Because you're dead," he whispered, looking forth at the epitaph. "I know you are."_

"_Do you really?" Peter's voice asked, before Sylar heard the figure approaching him from behind, taking one slow step through the snowy grass after another. "You think about it constantly – the possibilities. Maybe... I'm not really dead at all... maybe when you handed over my body to my mother she handed it over to a company who made sure I was resurrected..."_

"_No," Sylar said, shaking his head, refusing to turn around. "No. That's not possible, this is nothing more than my subconscious way of inflicting the torture upon myself that I feel I deserve..."_

"_Or, on the contrary... this __**is**__ real, I __**am**__ alive, and __**I**__ am going to do everything in my power to make your life a __**living**__**hell**__ all over again because of the 'choice' you made..."_

"_No," Sylar said again, more firmly than before. "Peter would never do something like that."_

"_Maybe the past me you knew wouldn't have..." Sylar felt the arms wrapping around him from behind. "...but the future me who was forced to undergo all of those horrible experiments just might." He closed his eyes again, frozen with the fear he didn't want to admit to feeling. "The future me who can only dream of what you were like after he crucified you because he had all memories following that incident erased when his abilities were restored." His breathing hitched when he felt the soft lips on his ear. "The future me who ironically remembers that which you do not, and knows of the lies you have told..."_

"_I don't know what you're talking about," Sylar whispered, unmoving._

"_Of course you do," Peter whispered into his ear, "because we both know your father's trap worked in reverse, and thus, we both know who you __**really**__ chose for death... and yet, still you continue to tell your __**lies**__ in __**my**__ name, because you __**can't**__ look Claire in the eyes when __**you**__ lie in bed next to her and just say it... just say that __**she**__ was meant to die __**instead**__ of me so that everything the two of you now share would __**instead**__ belong to __**us**__."_

_Sylar stopped breathing altogether for a moment. He was sure his heart had stopped as well, but he wasn't paying attention. While he kept telling himself that this was not real, that he'd had this nightmare many times since Peter's death, he nonetheless couldn't tell himself that it did not frighten him to levels he hadn't known he was capable of falling to._

"_Sylar," Peter breathed into his hair, chuckling. "If I had of known how you really felt about me, how much I tortured you with my very existence," he said, lowering his voice to a hushed, dark whisper, "...I would have forced myself on you instead of those nails."_

"_Please," Sylar said through his teeth. "Please... I know this isn't real, goddamnit."_

"_Mmm, keep telling yourself that," Peter whispered against Sylar's neck. "Because when I finally come back for you... I am gonna turn your sick fantasies into sick realities, and then," he turned Sylar's face toward his, "I will make you realize just __**how**__ screwed for life you really are," he said, lips brushing against Sylar's._

"_You're not real," Sylar whispered against Peter's mouth. "The only thing here that's real is... me."_

_Peter shook his head slightly, cupping Sylar's face in his hands. "I don't know who you're trying to kid with that one," he said silently, pressing their foreheads together. "Rest-assured, though... I will make you pay for killing Nathan, for killing me, and for seducing Claire with your __**lies**__... and, who knows? Maybe I'll come back for you today, tomorrow, in a year from now, in a few decades from now... you'll never know," he whispered into Sylar's ear, smiling, "but you'll __**always**__ wonder..."_

He bolted upright, gasping.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

"No, tell me. You had _that_ dream again, didn't you?"

Sylar pressed a hand to his forehead, brushing a strand of dark hair away from his eyes. "Of course I did," he whispered, sighing rather exasperatedly, though he figured he was doing a poor job of disguising how disquieted he truly was. "For the past few days... it's almost as if I've only been dreaming this life, and when I finally wake up, I'll be somewhere else, someone completely different."

"You know you're only having these nightmares and these equally weird thoughts because the one year anniversary of that day is coming up." Claire sighed, running her hand down his arm. "Besides... we can do something about it soon, make things right."

"Nothing makes everything 'all' right, Claire," he said, turning over onto his left side to face her. "I hate... I hate knowing that, in doing everything I can in order to preserve my present and future with you, I have to give that madman exactly what he wants by risking thousands of lives on the chance that he might actually travel into the past again."

"Funny." She smirked. "It seems like only yesterday we were spending weeks on end talking about how _we_ were going to change the past so we would never have this present or future," she said with a chuckle. "Back then, I know that was the _only_ thing that made lying next to you in bed seem anywhere _close_ to okay."

"It's still not okay," he whispered, brushing a strand of long, brown hair away from her eyes as he stared into them. "I'm convinced that there's more to my nightmares than I'm leading myself to believe."

She rolled her eyes at him, exhaling a short breath. "Sylar, Peter _is_ dead, and you know that." He began to turn away at this point, prompting her to grip his shoulder. "No, don't turn away from this," she said, looking at him intently. "We've been over this, and I'm _not_ letting you do what you're thinking about doing right now and I _know_ you're thinking it because I know _you_."

Quickly and without thought, he said, "But I have to dig up his grave."

She blinked a single time and frowned. "No, you don't. And you're not going to," she said, sighing again. "He's _dead_, and that's really all there is to it. I've accepted it, and I _thought_ you had."

"But—"

"God_damn_, Gabriel, if you don't _stop_ thinking like this you _are_ going to drive yourself crazy all over again." She watched him sit up, smirking when she heard him smirk. "You know he was my hero, too, but torturing yourself like this isn't going to get you anywhere _but_ crazy."

"I don't think I ever left that place," he muttered, staring straight ahead through the darkness, at the wall. "I do know you're right, that my guilt has essentially taken Peter's shape, but I still can't help but feel like he's coming back for me, for no other reason than that of torturing me..."

She chuckled again, sarcastically. "You know, this really is ridiculous," she said, watching him watch the wall. "Samson's just now beginning to try and take over the world and your only 'real' concern is that my uncle's coming back from the dead to get you?" She smirked again. "Nice."

"You're not amusing anyone with statements like that, Claire," he said under his breath. "Not even yourself."

"Damn right I'm not, because the world doesn't have time for another one of your dissociative episodes right now and neither do I."

"And I do?" Sylar dragged a hand back through his hair, standing from the bed as he laughed, mindlessly. "Yes, you're right," he said, slowly walking his way to the windows. "We have all the time in the world, but the world doesn't, and yes... I am crazy."

She propped one elbow on the pillow, resting the side of her head against her fist. "Like I said, not funny," she replied with a huff. "Yeah, you're crazy, but I didn't mean it the way you took it. I knew this week was gonna be hard for you, but seriously... when you start talking about ideas like Peter coming back from the dead to get you, about doing things like defiling his grave, not to mention wording everything you say like some sort of philosopher on drugs, uh, _yeah_. You're _going_ to sound a _little_ crazy."

Sylar said nothing; only continued to stand there, gazing through the glass.

Claire rolled her eyes again, throwing the covers back in a frustrated manner. "I'm not going to apologize to you for what I said just now, because you needed to hear it," she said, standing from the bed before she knelt, picking up her shirt from the floor. She slipped her arms through the long sleeves, fastening several of the buttons into place. "I wish you'd consider – for once – the fact that just because some stuff makes sense to you _doesn't_ mean it even should make sense to everyone else."

He shook his head to a barely noticeable extent as he stared through the windows. "And I wish you'd consider the fact of the matter is that the implausible only makes as much sense as it does be_cause_ of the fact that it makes no sense."

"So..." She raised an eyebrow. "That's the reason you believe your nightmares are real?"

"Partially," he replied, casting a quick glance at Claire's reflection in the glass. Shortly thereafter, he went back to staring at the nothingness he had been staring at. "I never said I believed they were real, however, I only said I believed there was more to them than I had initially led myself to believe."

"Same thing," she said, walking forwards until she had reached the windowpane.

"If I could only be sure," he whispered, lightly tracing the fingertips of his right-hand down the cool glass.

Claire ceased him by the wrist. "No." After he looked down at her with a hint of annoyance, she said, "You're _not_ doing it, and even if you did open up that coffin you'd only come up with another bizarre theory afterwards about shape shifters or astral projections or who knows what." He pulled his hand free of her grasp, smirking. When he went back to looking through that damn wall of glass, she added, "And considering how great you're doing now I'm sure seeing his dead body really _is_ just what you need to make yourself feel better."

Sylar hesitated to respond, though a small part of him wanted to inquire Claire of her thoughts on the matter. He decided against it, however, since he already knew it would be just another conjunction of sentences in a repeat conversation.

"The hell with this."

She smiled another sarcastic smile. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he said, turning away from the windows, walking away from them, from Claire. He paused halfway across the room, turning back around with his arm extended and his finger pointed. "If you actually gave a damn about the seriousness of the situation we're facing you might try taking me a _little_ more seriously, like you _used_ to."

"Oh boo-hoo," she said mockingly, appearing as far from intimidated as one could get in Sylar's presence. "Now, lower your hand, shut your mouth, and get back into bed be_fore_ you do something stupid."

The hand Sylar was pointing at her with opened, before – with telekinetic energy – he pulled her to him until he had her by the throat. "_Don't_ test me, Claire," he whispered, staring her in the eyes. "One of these decades, I may become bored with your demands."

"And one of these _days_," she whispered, "I may actually decide to pull the trigger of the gun I hold to your head when you sleep."

He smiled down at her. "Is that how much you love me?"

"That," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, "is how much I love to hate you."

He leaned down and their lips met, and as he kissed her, he couldn't help but feel the same thoughts of hers he always felt when they kissed. She didn't love to hate him, she hated to love him, or so she told herself. Sylar was thankful she couldn't read his feelings the way he could read hers. She would probably call him a twisted version of some warped, hopeless romantic, only to find it inexplicably endearing before she had herself another reason to laugh at him, to ridicule him, to mock him for making her feel the way she did.

"I want you," Claire said between kisses, "to get that look off of your face." He didn't, however. She could still feel that smile. "You better not be doing it again."

"Doing what again?" he whispered, knowing smile on his face. When he attempted to kiss her again, she pulled back, shoving the flat of her hand against his chest.

"You know what." She smirked, then shrugging one of her shoulders insistently, adding a hand gesture to make her point. Surely he knew her point. "You promised me," she said, pointing up at him. "You promised me you would never use your abilities on me like that. Make that at all."

"I'm sorry," he said, smiling contritely, brushing his fingers back through her hair. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Well," she began, ceasing him by the wrist again before, somewhat effortlessly, she started to drag him back to where they had been prior to the nightmare talk. "For starters, you can get your ass back into bed." She observed as he abided, though he was clearly faking his lack of enthusiasm. "Secondly," she said through her chuckles, those chuckles transpiring into a silent fit of laughter when she realized how ridiculous Sylar looked. Unfortunately, she forgot what she was going to say.

He knew what Claire had wanted to say secondly, though he wasn't going to say it for her. Instead, he sat up moments after lying down, having felt something rather uncomfortable underneath his shoulder blade.

Holding the gun in his hand, he said, "Are you ever going to stop bringing your toys to bed with us?"

"Only on your life," she replied, crawling into the bed before she crawled on top of him, snatching the gun out of his hand. She checked to make sure it was still loaded, while Sylar's expression shot her a blank. "What is it?"

"I forgot what _I_ was going to say," he said, shrugging against the pillows. He normally wouldn't forget what he was going to say, much less what he was thinking, but whatever it had been couldn't have been more important than whatever it was Claire had to think or say at the moment. Or do.

_Smash_.

Silence.

"Don't move," Sylar whispered, though Claire had already pointed her gun before he had spoken.

"Someone's in there," she whispered, head turned fully to the right with her arm extended and her gun aimed in the closed door's direction. "Do you think it's him?"

"If it is," he said, sitting up as he stared to his left, "then he just made the _second_ biggest mistake of his life..."

Claire looked at him out of the corner of her eye, nodding shortly after he did. Wordlessly, they got out of bed, and proceeded to take silent, cautious steps toward the closed door. They both took into account the fact that the light within the bathroom was on as well, when it previously hadn't been. There was only one explanation for this, which was that a certain someone with certain abilities had located Sylar and Claire's current whereabouts, and now wanted to have a little fun...

And while it did seem highly unlikely that the intruder had stuck around, one never could be too careful...

Sylar approached the door, with Claire at his side. He held his left-arm out with his palm open, briefly looking to his right. "Stand back," he said, and although she didn't consent and only continued to stand there with her gun aimed, he reminded himself that he wouldn't hesitate to throw her out of harm's way, if, indeed, the 'visitor' had yet to depart.

He had already lost Peter to that madman, and he was _not_ going to lose Claire to him, too.

In an instance, the door opened; nearly breaking right off of its hinges. Sylar took a couple more steps forwards, though it did seem that whoever had signed in had already signed out... in more ways than one.

"What the hell is that?" Claire whispered, standing at Sylar's side as they looked into the bathroom, particularly at the large mirror therein.

He slowly walked into the small room, arm still extended, before he brushed a shaky set of fingertips through the crimson which now coated a large portion of the partially shattered mirror.

"It's blood," he replied, silently.

As she continued to stare forth at the mirror, she said, "I knew that, but what I really want to know is what this message is even supposed to mean." She shook her head slightly, curiosity overtaking her facial features. After turning her head to face Sylar's somewhat blank expression, she went on to say, "Or better yet, the purpose behind it."

"Someone obviously wanted to scare us..."

She furrowed her brow as she looked at him, especially as he had not turned to face her once since seeing what the mirror had to reveal. "Well," she said, "they obviously succeeded in freaking one of us out."

"You're not blind, Claire," he muttered, rubbing his bloody fingertips together before he looked up, back at the message on the mirror. "So tell me, what do _you_ make of this?"

"You mean the message?" She shrugged. "It says 'The Third Coming'. Like you said, it's just another one of Samson's attempts to frighten us with some stupid riddle."

"My father didn't do this," he said blankly, words trailing.

She shrugged again. "Probably not," she said, exhaling a small sigh. "But, it's obvious he just got another one of his brainwashed drones to do his dirty work for him again."

"No, I..." His words trailed off into the same blankness his face currently had to show, and he turned away from the mirror, once again staring down at the blood on his hand.

She raised an eyebrow, placing one of her hands on his shoulder. "Gabriel?" she whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "What's wrong? You've got 'that' look – the one you only get when you're genuinely freaked about something."

"I already know what you're going to say to me when I tell you this," he said, continuing to stare down at his blood-stained hand, "but 'the third coming'... it's something... _Peter_ talks of, in my nightmares..."

Claire shook her head again, running a hand back through her long hair. "I didn't want to say this before, but if there's _really_ anything more to these recent nightmares of yours than your own guilt, it _has_ to be Samson messing with your head."

"But what if it's not?" Sylar said quickly, turning to face her. He held his arm out to his side, pointing at the broken and bloody mirror. "What if... what if Peter _is_ alive?"

"You know that's not—"

"_Don't_ you get it, Claire?" he said, shaking the hand he was pointing at the mirror with. "The third coming? I killed him once, you killed him in the future once, and my 'choice' for you killed him again and I don't have the faintest clue _whose_ blood this is nor do I _want_ to know but what I _do_ know is that he's come back again for both of us!"

"Calm down," she said firmly, staring at him with a very serious expression. "You're acting hysterical, another thing that's never gotten you anywhere but crazy." With her eyes still on his, she pointed to her right, at the mirror. "_Peter_ did _not_ do this. He _is_ dead, but your father _is_ alive, and I am _positive_ that this is just another one of his sick plans to fuck with your head."

Sylar, at this moment, chose to say nothing. Maybe Claire's theory was correct, and – as horrible as her theory was – he hoped it was accurate. He felt somewhat horrible for thinking in such a way, since he would have given anything to have Peter back in his life, but if Peter _was_ alive... this _wasn't_ the same Peter he had known...

This wasn't the person who had turned his nightmares of hell into dreams; it was a person who turned his nightmares into dreams of hell.

Claire folded her arms, looking off to the side for a brief moment as she huffed. "You're not going to let this rest until you let _him_ rest, are you?"

No answer.

She frowned. "Well?"

He blinked. "What?" he said, sounding just as disoriented as he appeared.

Claire emitted the sigh of defeat, rolling her eyes. She dropped her arms to her sides. "Alright." He looked at her oddly, as if he wasn't following what she was trying to tell him. Apparently, whatever nightmares he was having were affecting him far more than she had led herself to believe. "Alright," she said again. "If going to that cemetery to do you-know-what is really what you have to do in order to get,"—she pointed to the mirror—"_these_ thoughts out of your head, I guess you're going to do it whether I give you permission to or not, and at least this way, you won't have to construct a bizarre plan to go behind my back that you'd never be able to get away with anyway."

"I don't understand," he said, although he was lying. He did understand. "I don't understand how you can speak so coldly of him now."

She stared at him with an expression of disbelief. "I don't speak 'coldly' of him," she said, furrowing her brow, frowning. "Maybe I'm _actually_ concerned about you, because it seems – surprise, surprise – that when your life gets crazy, _mine_ does, too. I am never going to forget Peter, and I don't _ever_ want to, because I loved him just as much as you did – if not more – but sometimes I can't help but get the feeling you resent me because he had to die for me to live, because you believe his death is the only thing that brought us together."

"I don't resent you, Claire," Sylar said, turning away from the mirror. "And as for us, I've known for years that 'we' were inevitable – it was only a matter of time. The only thing Peter's death attributed to this was that it sealed the deal faster." He began to walk away, pausing in the doorway while he looked at her. "The only person I truly 'resent' is _myself_, but I'm not going to give you another drawn out speech about how the world would be a better place had I either never been born or succeeded in killing myself, because I'm _not_ a coward and that's _exactly_ why I have to eliminate every wrong move from the strategy before I make it if either of us have any hope of saving the world in time to save us all some time."

He was half-expecting an argument to ensue at this point.

Instead, the only thing she had to say was, "I'm coming with you."

Smiling, he said, "Of course you are."

_Of course she is. Now go, Gabriel, because to go will be worse than your death, to live will be worse than your death, and you are falling right into my trap..._

—

**A/N:** Um, yes... This is probably the creepiest thing I have ever written. I do sort of want to continue this (though I don't want it to turn into anything super-long), but I have no idea how soon I will update.

Please review, if something nice is to be said. :)


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